The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle

by Christopher Ward

  My curiosity was disappearing, and my desire to be above ground was getting stronger by the second. I moved slowly along a darkened wall in the flickering bluish light toward a doorway that I hoped would get me out of there quickly. The workers applauded Fiat’s words, providing the distraction I needed.

  I stepped into an ancient passageway of large stones with puddles of blackish water pooling at my feet. One hallway led to another just like it, then another. Pipes twisted like ropes were attached to the walls, and the passages rose and dipped as I made my way through them to who knew where. The sounds of work became a dull throb in the distance. Even if I could find my way back, I knew it would be the wrong choice. That bad taste in the back of the throat called fear was making its way into my mouth. I was concentrating hard on not having it turn to panic when my shoulder bumped against a metal ladder. Feet dripping, I hauled myself up to the lowest rung and began climbing. I looked up into complete blackness, but it seemed to hold more hope than what was below.

  After what must have been ten minutes of climbing, during which I did not slip once, nor think of how high I must have been, I saw light. I banged my head against something cold and hard and peered through metal bars onto a street. I realized I was looking through a sewer grate. Anyone larger would have been facing the return trip on the ladder, but not me. I tucked my hair into my hood and squeezed and pushed and wriggled until I was standing on a dark street, covered in things that should have been going down a drain, with wet feet and no idea where I was. A lone car sat at a taxi stand on the corner. I almost cried when I saw the exhaust pipes shaped like trombones. When I threw open the back door and fell in, I must have looked like a creature crawling out of a swamp.

  Dizzy turned and looked at me from under his porkpie hat. “Where’ll it be, mademoiselle? The Russian church?”

  The street and the church were dark when Dizzy dropped me off back at Rudee’s. He hadn’t asked me a thing, and I don’t think I would’ve had the energy to tell him anyway.

  “The Hacks are rehearsing tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  I thanked him and climbed past a snoring Rudee into the safety of my room. With my smoky hair and clothing smelling of the sewer, I was seriously beginning to compete with Rudee’s stove for odour champion of Paris.

  Fourteen

  I woke with a start as rain rattled the windows of the turret. The wind cracked and snapped like sheets flapping in the storm, but I felt oddly comforted by the sound and fell back to sleep right away. I dreamed about surveying Paris from the sky sitting on a giant hook that swung gently in the wind, until I was dropped down a chimney that turned into an endless tunnel, out of which I landed hard on the ground.

  “You alright, Mac?” Rudee called out. He must have heard me tumble from my bed.

  “Yeah, I’m okay, Rudee,” I answered groggily as I entered his room. He looked up a little sheepishly from burying his face in a bunch of flowers that he was putting in a tin can.

  “From Sashay,” he grinned, “to thank me for my little gift. She is the cream of the cat parade, no?”

  Hard to disagree, I thought. I tried to wash last night off me in the tiny bathroom and thought about what to tell Rudee. I didn’t have much of a chance, since he tapped on the door. “Hacks practice time. You coming?”

  I didn’t want to spend any time without friends, so I threw on some clothes and chased Rudee, who was carrying an armload of sheet music and a shopping bag to the cab. As he pulled out of the lane, he eyed me in the rear view mirror. “You slept late, ma petite. Storm keep you awake?”

  I could tell he was checking out the bruised-looking circles under my eyes. I really wanted to tell him about last night’s excursion to Les Halles and Shadowcorps, but he was acting so protective toward me that I felt guilty. He also seemed less morose than usual, even perky, as he chattered away like a magpie between rude gestures at anyone who risked sharing the road with us. “Last practice before the Bastille Day party.” Mention of the national celebration made me shudder, thinking of last night. “What did you think of Sashay’s dance, Mac? You know she is famous for taking the audience around the calendar to their childhood days when she performs. That’s why they call her the ‘Queen of Dreams.’”

  I knew what he meant as I recalled my own reverie at the club.

  “Bah, they won’t let me in there. Not that Sashay wants me dangling around anyway. Blag’s family owns the club, so I’m banned, and of course he can go whenever he wants.”

  Madeleine cut in on a burst of static. “Bonjour, all my low rollers, ça va? Just a reminder to all of you that the Bastille Day party at CAFTA features our very own Hacks starting after the fireworks ... if there’s room on the stage for all that talent.”

  Rudee positively glowed at this announcement.

  “Free blue, white, and red earplugs at the door!” Madeleine cackled, and it sounded like more static.

  Rudee laughed and waved at the radio. “We’ll show them. They’ll be dancing their shoes away.”

  The practice was in a room above CAFTA that, as my dad would say, looked like a tornado had passed through it. Instruments, amplifiers, speakers, microphones, music stands, coffee cups, pastry wrappers, coats, and sheet music were scattered randomly. On the walls were posters of bands I’d never heard of like The Stereo Types, The Uncalled Four, and Colour Me CooCoo. I was sure I wasn’t missing much.

  “It’s Mademoiselle Mac. She’s back,” said Mink Maynard from behind his drums.

  Dizzy said “Hi” and gave me a knowing wink.

  After a round of secret handshakes, Rudee introduced me to the brothers Maurice and Henri Rocquette on stand-up bass and banjo. They bowed and smiled, showing perfect teeth beneath tiny moustaches. Henri, the younger, had slicked-back grey hair, while Maurice, the older, had a shiny black dome that glistened like motor oil and featured a little hint of grey. Rudee handed out set lists and sheet music and from a shopping bag produced a collection of matching Hawaiian berets. “Part of the ‘Lighten Up’ campaign. What do you think?”

  He tossed a beret to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to try it on. Since there were no extra chairs, I curled up on a mound of coats and watched the Hacks storm through their repertoire. They seemed to forget I was there as the laughter got louder. They took turns playing solos, and the best ones were greeted with “bravos” from the others. The endings of the songs were ragged at first, sounding at times like someone dropping an armload of dishes. Gradually they got better as they went along, then they were on to the next tune, Mink coolly counting each song in by clicking his sticks together over his head and calling out, “One two, you know what to do.” The song list included all their favourites, geared to keeping a party going, and there were a couple of heated moments while a sequence was arrived at.

  “Nonono ... ‘Grasse Matinee’ can’t follow ‘Kiss My Sister.’ They’re in the same key!”

  “Well, what about ‘Gâteaux To Go,’ then ‘Stinkbomb Serenade?”

  “Are you crazy? They’ll be throwing things at us.” And so on.

  It all culminated with an almost unrecognizable version of the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” a very difficult song to disguise. My mind wandered as a long jam rambled on into the afternoon. Rudee and Dizzy were standing over me smiling when I came to as the others packed up their instruments. “I thought you California girls were partypoppers,” said Rudee.

  “Music for dreams ... so it seems,” called Mink from behind his hi-hat.

  “Nice to meet you, Henri, Maurice,” I said.

  “Enchanté,” they replied as they headed for the stairs carrying their instruments.

  “Hey, Rudee, let’s grab a bite at Le Losange,” said Dizzy. “I’m tired of the food at CAFTA, and we’ll be seeing plenty of it at the party.”

  “Sounds good, Diz,” said Rudee, who was polishing the chrome of his organ stand.

  “Mac, you want to ride in style for a change?” asked Dizzy.

  I
looked at Rudee, who grinned. “Go bohemian, little one, you’ll appreciate the higherlife after that.”

  As we walked toward the cab, Dizzy put his pork pie back on and tossed the Hawaiian beret into the trash. “Lighten up, mon derriere,” he chortled.

  The engine sputtered and coughed as he looked over at me. “Not that it’s any of my business what you were up to in Les Halles in the middle of the night, Mac, but I figured we’d at least better have our stories straight. Rudee’s my best friend, and he really cares about you. Since you arrived in Paris, he feels responsible for you.”

  I felt terrible knowing how last night’s outing would affect my friend and protector. We wound our way up the hill to Montmartre. Dizzy pointed out an impossibly narrow brick building shaped like a lookout tower and identified it as Madeleine’s office before stopping in front of the Sacre Coeur church.

  “Dizzy, I know it was stupid, but I had to find out what I could. You know Paris is getting darker, not lighter, and I think I know who’s behind it. Did Rudee tell you about what I overheard at the club?”

  He nodded, and I went on to tell him the story of my late night visit to Shadowcorps. His eyes widened, and he pursed his lips. “Whew, this is serious stuff. Let’s go. Rudee will be waiting; he has to know.” I didn’t like it, but I knew he was right.

  Le Losange was a vaguely diamond-shaped brasserie on a busy corner. Rudee was already in a red vinyl booth by the window and waved us over. We all settled in and gave our orders to a waiter in a red apron that touched the tops of his shoes. He had an if-you-want-to-be-so-foolish tone as he noted our requests. I asked for ketchup on my green beans to see if smoke would come out of his ears, but he just ignored me.

  I could only delay the inevitable for so long. Rudee told us through mouthfuls of oozing crêpe that he’d been to see Inspector Magritte about the domed church theft and told him about what I’d overheard at the Moulin D’Or. Apparently Magritte had a large map of Paris on his wall with pictures of the church from all angles, and a magnet of the missing cross that he moved around the map and some spaghetti-like scribbles.

  “He took notes,” Rudee related, “and seemed genuinely concerned. I could tell his hat was elsewhere, though, because he was distracted by a leak in the ceiling of his office that had just extinguished his pipe. When I left, he had opened his umbrella and was drawing more noodles on his map.”

  All of this just made me impatient, and with Dizzy’s encouragement, I told Rudee about my visit to Shadowcorps. His expression went from surprise to shock to horror. “You climbed a ladder for five storeys and squeezed through a grate in the gutter in Les Halles?”

  At this point his face was in his hands, and he seemed to be mumbling a prayer in some weird language. He looked up at me and put on his most serious expression. “Mac, I’m not going to go behind the back burner with you on this one.”

  I couldn’t help it, and neither could Dizzy. We both erupted in laughter at once. Dizzy, unfortunately, had a mouthful of tarte tatin which wound up decorating the red vinyl beside Rudee.

  “What?” Rudee asked indignantly, but I could see that he was trying not to smile. “Go ahead and laugh your heads till Thursday. I’m just glad Dizzy was at that cab stand.”

  A television set over the bar was showing pictures of the golden-topped monument in Place De La Bastille as we left the restaurant. It all seemed like preparation for the national holiday, until someone at the bar said in a shocked voice, “Mon Dieu, non!”

  We stopped and turned in time to see the windblown reporter, mike in hand, breathlessly recounting the daring theft of the statue from the top of the column. She referred to “Another outlandish crime against the state and all that Parisians hold sacred. We ask not only ‘why’ was this beautiful work stolen, but ‘how.’”

  The camera pulled back to show the size of the square and the crush of cars swirling around it. In the background of the shot, I couldn’t help but notice the ominous silhouette of a construction crane.

  Fifteen

  Rudee and I, with Dizzy following close behind, ran red lights from Montmartre to the Bastille. It came to me that the Bastille was today’s major destination for my school group. I closed my eyes a lot on the way and was very glad when we joined a growing cluster of cars near the square. This time we were relative latecomers, since a crush of locals had gathered to stare at the now-naked column. The number of news trucks told us that this was going to receive much more notice than the previous thefts. A barrier was being set up, and the square was being taped off. Rudee charged past and ripped through the tape.

  We spotted the bowler hat and tailored black coat of Inspector Magritte near a small group of official-looking men. “Rudee, mademoiselle, monsieur.” He nodded solemnly as the three of us approached. “This is outrageous, of course.”

  “Oui, but Magritte, have you any idea who is responsible?” demanded Rudee.

  At this point the inspector made a little steeple with his fingers, sucked in his breath, and narrowed his eyes in deep contemplation. “I have some suspicions and a couple of theories, but no clues and precious few leads. I’m considering every possibility.”

  Rudee looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, but he asked the obvious question instead. “But how? How do you lift a statue from the Place de la Bastille and erase it with people all around?”

  “Right now we can only say when, mon ami,” answered Magritte as he nodded calmly and lit his pipe before continuing. “At a certain time every day in this part of the city, as the sun drops low on the boulevards, casting what I think of as a surreal glow over the city, the glare is such that it causes a few moments of blindness. Pedestrians stop and shield their eyes. It’s why there are so many late afternoon accidents in the Place de la Bastille, you see.”

  I wanted to add that it might have something to do with the terrible drivers, but I didn’t want Rudee and Dizzy to take it personally.

  “If you will excuse me, I wish to consult with my technicians; they’re dusting for fingerprints in the bistros surrounding the square.”

  As Magritte departed, Dizzy was already impersonating him, steepling his fingers and saying, “I’m considering every possibility.”

  Rudee was too disgusted to be amused. They were exchanging theories when I saw a small group of girls surrounding a woman waving her hands like she was fighting off a swarm of bees. Mademoiselle Lesage! I pushed through the group and put my arm over our sobbing tour guide’s shoulders. She looked up long enough to register who was consoling her as Penelope fired off a half-dozen photos.

  “Ah, Mac, I thought we’d lost you. I am so distraught. The golden figure represents the spirit of freedom, and the Bastille is the most sacred of historical locations in all of Paris because of its connection to the Revolution....” At this, she broke down and was unable to continue.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle Lesage, I share your moment of misery, but we must soldier on in these trying times.” Penelope gave a mock serious salute over Mademoiselle Lesage’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best for us to return to the residence to contemplate in solitude this devastating loss.”

  Mme Lesage nodded sadly and half-heartedly gathered up the girls. Penelope came over and said quietly, “Well done, Mac. We’ll probably head for Café de Flore in St. Germain once Lesage is safely out of sight. We used the fire escape last night. Any chance of you joining us for a chocolate chaude? The clafouti is magnifique. No almonds in sight.”

  “I’ll definitely try,” I replied, but Penelope wasn’t buying it. “Look, if you can cover for me, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “D’accord, ‘Mystery Girl,’ but this better be worth it, or you owe me a lifetime of tea parties, teen fashion shows, and pastry-making classes.”

  I nodded reluctantly. “Maybe we’ll even play princesses like we used to,” she added with a little too much enthusiasm. “Just kidding. Okay, get out of here before Lesage retires that handkerchief.”

  I eased
back into the crowd, noticing lights and a TV camera, and made my way closer. I was stunned to see our favourite windblown reporter interviewing Luc Fiat. “But Monsieur Fiat, aren’t these symbols of all that is light and right with Paris? How will this affect the mayor’s campaign?”

  He was slick, I had to give him that. With a little shrug and a patronizing smile, he oozed confidence. “You know, Louise ... and by the way, I love what you’ve done with your hair, it’s so natural and windblown ... we Parisians are not so easily disheartened. The sun will come up tomorrow, hopefully, and we will carry on as we have always done. Yes, it’s true, the loss of these beautiful golden symbols does take some of the glow from our hearts, but isn’t that what electric lights are for?”

  He chuckled greasily, and Louise seemed uncertain how to take this. Fiat went on, “But, seriousement, you know the smiles will be just as warm and the fireworks just as bright on Bastille Day, won’t they? So, lighten up!”

  She seemed glad to let the interview conclude naturally on this odd note and thanked him before returning to a recap of the crime for what was undoubtedly the hundredth time that evening.

  Fiat stood with a frozen smile as she wrapped up. Suddenly his eyes caught mine when the camera lights switched off. “You ... la petite ... where do I know you from?”

  I know I should’ve just smiled sweetly, and the moment would have passed, but I just couldn’t. Instead I held his oily gaze and said, “Califorrrniiiaaa,” before quickly slipping back into the crowd. Before I disappeared, I did see his perfectly waxed expression fail and change to something darker. I didn’t want to stick around to see what came next. I heard Rudee calling my name over the hubbub of the crowd and the growing chorus of car horns, and we hurried to the cab.